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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620861">Two Dead Swans - A Creepypasta Reader Insert</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrawberryMacaron/pseuds/StrawberryMacaron'>StrawberryMacaron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Creepypasta - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fanfiction, Graphic Description, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader is a detective, Reader-Insert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:29:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrawberryMacaron/pseuds/StrawberryMacaron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(Originally posted on Quotev) You are a crime scene investigator. After a couple of good years in your trade, you eventually meet an abrupt end to your successful career. It started with a particular case when you crossed paths with a group of vicious and unrelenting murderers. Creepypasta. You don't know what started it. Maybe you were too observant? Maybe you saw things that weren't really there? You've learned quickly that asking these questions won't help you anymore, because they're trying to take you down. And you have made a promise to stop them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hoodie/Reader, Masky/Reader, Tobias Erin "Toby" Rogers|Ticci Toby/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. How Does It Feel?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For everyone reading, this story can also be found on my Quotev account-where it was originally posted.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Flashes of blue and red light up the dark street in front of me. I look out of my car and glance around the yard. Strands of classic yellow police tape line the driveway and yard of the house. It's an old suburban built with large white windows and a deep bright paint job. Surprising given its age. Before arriving, my boss told me a little bit about the family that lived here.</p><p>        They were good people. The parents and their two children attended a nearby church on most Sundays. They would donate often and were quite active at their kid's schools. Records show that their time spent here hasn't been problematic. No police calls, no complaints or domestic disputes; quiet until tonight.</p><p>        On my dashboard lays a thin manila folder, only containing a few sheets of information. According to the file, there is only one survivor of the break-in. Their eight-year-old daughter. I haven't met her yet, but I know that her childhood is forever changed, forever gone. That's what always happens. It's inevitable.</p><p>        I only first started crime scene investigation a couple of years ago. While it's nothing in the eyes of some, it has been plenty of time for me to get the gist of things. It took hard work: hours of schooling and practice. Though now, I could never be comfortable doing anything else. The truth: solving murders is my passion. There's nothing more satisfying than faces of pure relief. That raw emotion you get once you've caught the criminal. Once a parent knows that they can finally breathe free again. Once a lover can finally find closure and answers and most of all: justice. That simple reaction makes all my hard work worth it. Every hour, minute, and second I know is never wasted.</p><p>        This is exactly what makes these types of cases so devastating. Everyone has that one type of case that tends to hit them differently. To me (and many of my colleagues) knowing that there are little to no survivors makes things so much harder. You aren't rewarded with a family that feels a little bit safer. You aren't given that eerie, bittersweet feeling of consolation. Instead, you are responsible for getting revenge when all other sources of hope are gone. Too soon the tides seem to shift and you become the saving grace when there is no family left to fight for their lost loved one.</p><p>        I knew before I even arrived at the scene that this is going to be one of those cases that I remember. It's crazy to even think that there have been some I've already forgotten, but this I know. I guarantee. How could I not know that this little girl who lived-despite the odds-will stay engraved in my memories? It's as if I'm already there. Already looking through the one-way window lining the interrogation room. I can see her horror-stricken face, crusted with dried tears, and eyes shining with new ones. I can hear what remains of her innocence. Her voice shaky and not yet understanding that everything is gone: her family, her old life. Everything she once had will forever be different.</p><p>        Before leaving my car, I try to dust off the thoughts roaming around my mind. Easier said than done, but I do it anyway because I have to.</p><p>        I pull my car keys out of the ignition and toss them into my glove box. I don't have to worry about theft right now. One glance in this direction and you can see that the entire neighborhood is crawling with police cars. Assuming that anything would happen, I'll still be fine. It wouldn't be too hard to catch someone here.</p><p>        A burst of early winter air hits my skin as soon as I open my car door. I won't be out here for too long, so it doesn't bother me much.</p><p>        Among the flashes of police cars are many cameras, news reporters, and curious neighbors. The worst part of the job is without a doubt the publicity. Don't get me wrong: the news is important. It would be a serious mistake if the people I worked with didn't alert anyone of serious dangers. When these people come up to a house like this though, for footage and footage only, it's sad. I push past the white lights of the cameras and ignore the microphones shoved in my face.</p><p>        I don't have time for any of this.</p><p>        I duck under a line of police tape and set foot on the sidewalk in front of the house. I can see one of my coworkers run up to me with a camera slung across her chest, leaving behind boxes of gloves and shoe covers on the hood of her car. She seemed to be waiting for me while preparing for the ongoing investigation.</p><p>        "Oh good! You're here. I was a little worried you would be late. We need as many hands as we can get for this one." Kari whispers to me with a slight Korean accent.</p><p>        Kari Im has been in this job a little longer than I have and I've gained nothing but respect and inspiration from her. Since my first day on the job, she's shown absolute dedication to her work. Her work ethic is amazing. We head to her car.</p><p>        "Anything you can fill me in on? I don't know much yet, only the basics." I ask.</p><p>        "Pretty bad home invasion. Three of four suspects dead. The little girl is already at the station. This one's pretty gruesome." Kari speaks as we put on any necessary gear for the job. I snap on a glove.</p><p>        "Do we have any idea who our main suspects are yet?"</p><p>        Kari shakes her head. "I'm not sure when we will. We're trying to get in contact with close relatives right now, looking to see where these guys were earlier this week. John is already going through phone contacts trying to see who is going to answer this time of night."</p><p>        "What about workplaces?"</p><p>        "Both are lawyers. Currently, that's our best lead. No surprise that a pissed off asshole who lost a case would try and get revenge. I wouldn't stick to that though."</p><p>        I nod. It sure isn't unlikely. Together, Kari and I walk up to the front door. Entering the house, I can immediately see the amount of stress these people went through. The struggle between the family and the intruders caused the living room couch to be pushed out of place. Splatters of blood were flung onto the floor and some walls. Stepping into the kitchen, glass shards lay scattered on the floor. They smashed open the kitchen door.</p><p>        Inside, I recognize some of my coworkers, some of which pick up the glass shards with over-sized tweezers. Each piece no matter how small are placed in plastic baggies. Any piece could have blood on them, but no swabs are being used. Likely, nothing is visible, yet we collect them to be safe. We can always run some tests to check. Better safe than sorry.</p><p>        "Okay, here's the game plan. Most of the downstairs is set. You're gonna help me and some others upstairs. Like always, if you think something might be important, just run it by me okay? I don't want you overlooking any evidence!"</p><p>        Kari leads me up the staircase and shows me the two rooms involved. She informs me that the other rooms were searched by John and part of his crew when he arrived. It appears that there was no sign of struggle or presence in those rooms, but we will go back to double-check later. Right now, though, this mess is our main concern.</p><p>        Kari pushes open a white door decorated with butterfly stickers and the name "SOPHIA" written in bold green print. The door gives a hefty creak as she pushes it open.</p><p>        Blood. That's the first thing I see and smell. The room is coated in it. That bright red liquid soaks the carpet in the center of the room. It pools on top of the room's hardwood floor and it drips down one of the walls.</p><p>        My fucking god. The bodies were removed from the scene soon before I arrived. After pictures had been taken, they were immediately sent for autopsy. At least most of what was left of them. From what I've heard, the mauling was sickening. It was nothing far from your typical factory accident: bloody, disfiguring, you name it. This was it.</p><p>        "Is this really..." I don't manage to finish my words. I glace over at Kari. With a frown on her face, she gives me a gentle nod.</p><p>        "This is the girl's room. We're still trying to piece together what happened, but no matter how awful it is she's turning out to be a valuable witness. John took her to get cleaned up before he brought her to get questioned. He said that she's already mentioned some of what happened and she saw most of it. Unfortunately."</p><p>        I let my eyes scan over the room once again. Granted, I've seen some awful shit before, but knowing the circumstances always changes everything. It always finds a way to seep sadness back into my brain.</p><p> </p><p>        For the next several hours, Kari and the crew work with me to start the foundations for the investigation. The two-story house has no cameras. Each room is clean of any useful evidence. The only conclusion we can make certain is what type of person we are dealing with. Whoever this person is, they are meticulous. Strangely meticulous. After multiple sweeps, we still can't find any DNA connections.</p><p>        Though we do have some possibly useful things here and there (like the glass from the broken door), nothing in the house so far can be used to give us any direct information. At the very least, it may help us once we have a few suspects at the table.</p><p>        Before we transfer responsibility to our higher-ups, I go out of my way to take a quick look around. I find myself back in front of the little girl's bedroom. Sophia... By now, the pool of blood in front of me has already started to dry into the floor. Poor thing. There's no way she isn't going to be terrified for the rest of her life. No way she'll ever want to be in this room again.</p><p>        White shelves propped around the room display family photos, various toys, and a range of stuffed animals. I step into the room to take a closer look at a particular picture on a bedside table. In my gloved hand rests this family before anything happened. Wide smiles are seen on each family member's face. They look genuinely happy-not like they sat and posed for some Christmas card. Instead, it's warmth and happiness. </p><p>        For a mere moment, my heart aches. I want to put the picture down; leave it where I found it. I want to take it with me. With a hint of adrenaline, I slip the small photo out and put it in my pocket. I leave the room without any hesitation. Turning a corner, I meet back up with Kari.</p><p>      "You all set?" She asks me. </p><p>       "I think so." </p><p>       We head down the staircase.</p><p>       "Street's been cleared out so no worries on getting out tonight! You can head out now if you want. I don't need much help wrapping things up, most of it has been finished,"  she gives a worried glance in my direction, "I know today has been tough." </p><p>       Together, Kari and I walk out the front door amidst the bustle of cleaning crews and specialists alike. Once outside, I am relieved to see only a few police officers around. The journalists and neighbors that once lined the crime scene have left to go back to the comfort of their homes. It seems everyone is preparing for their own busy schedules as the buzz of hot news dies down, likely to get some rest before their early morning shifts start in the next couple hours. </p><p>        Kari and I share a short exchange of goodbyes. I have everything I need right now. </p><p>        I take a short walk back to my car and settle in the front seat. I find my keys and the file exactly where I left them. It's 2 am by now. I want nothing more than to finally get back home and slip under my bed covers. To take off the clothes I wore today and feel free from today's work. </p><p>        Adjusting my mirrors, I get ready to leave. I see something in the backseat. I see <em>someone</em> in the back seat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. About Sophia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>          My mind feels fuzzy as I stare at the figure from my rear-view mirror. It's a grotesque image that you could barely consider a human being. Its body is black and flows like corn syrup mixed with mud. Slurry drips down the leather backseat and seeps into the carpet beneath him. The whole car smells like dirty lake water; reeking of the sickly-sweet stench.</p><p>        In the dim light from nearby streetlights, I can slightly make out what seems to be where eyes would be, yet I can see no pupils or sclera. Rather, a thin film of skin has formed over them. The figure is slumped over. I can hear his soft guppy breathing accompanying the chirps of crickets outside. </p><p>        <em>What the fuck</em> is all I can think. I pull my phone from my pocket. I need an ambulance. Fast. Right? Whoever this is, it looks like they've drowned two times over. There's no way they aren't already dead. I try to call 911 as quickly as I can but I'm startled by the sudden sounds of gunshots nearby, followed by sirens and flashing lights. I look behind me at some police cars passing and I notice that whoever was behind me is suddenly gone. The only thing there now is the stains imprinted in my car. I look around me. I never even felt the breeze of the car door opening. There's no way they could've left so fast. None of this makes sense. I feel like I'm in some sort of fever dream. </p><p>        My hands are shaking but I manage to turn on my car and pull out from the side of the road. It's freezing outside, but I roll down my windows anyway. The putrid smell of water and death is making it hard to breathe in such a small space. </p><p> </p><p>        I wake up exhausted the next morning. 9 AM, Sunday. I remember everything: the person in my backseat, the smell, the slow drive home. <em>Sophia</em>. I remember her too. The state of her trashed family home, all of her losses... I even remember the small photo that I slipped into my pocket last night. I pull it out to take another look at it. It's slightly creased from being confined to the limited space in my pocket, but it's still in good condition. Thank God. I need to give it to Sophia soon. If I hold onto it any longer I'll surely look like a creep. That's why I grabbed it, isn't it? </p><p>        I check my phone. I distinctly remember having to make a quick report before bed. I wasn't sure what was going on in my car last night, but it was definitely real. I tried not to leave out any details but it was really difficult to tell the full truth. Saying that someone drenched in water got into my car is one thing, but the eyes and the smell and the rotting is a completely different nightmare. I'd look crazy. I tried my best to sound <em>not</em> crazy, yet part of my experience was still chocked down to being tired from a late night and a busy new case.</p><p>        Though we collected tons of evidence last night, the circumstance of murders like this is not something that we tend to underestimate. I'll be called in today for sure, even if I would normally be able to relax and possibly take the day off. This sort of case without a doubt has high priority status. Even if we thought it wasn't, the media and neighbors would find a way to make it one. </p><p>       I have a few text messages from John that I never opened from earlier. </p><p><strong>JOHN: </strong>new updates on the case, come in soon tomorrow morning. we need to talk <em>    sent 3:26 am</em></p><p><strong>JOHN: </strong>heard about your report. everything okay?     <em>sent 7:00 am</em></p><p><strong>JOHN:</strong> no missing reports in the area have been filed for a while that hasn't been solved. we're still looking into it though     <em>sent 7:01 am </em></p><p>While I'm glad that we've already found more stuff for the homicide case, I'm slightly disappointed to hear about my report. Maybe I did imagine some of it? </p><p>       Before leaving, I make a cup of coffee to bring with me and I get dressed and slip my bag onto my shoulder. Soon after stepping outside, I'm relieved to feel the sun giving off the tiniest ounce of warmth today. I step up to my car. <em>Yeah, that.</em></p><p>        A thousand-yard stare glares through my windshield. It really must've been real though. I open the backseat door. I can see the stains and the hint of that deathly smell is still lingering. <em>I need to get that cleaned soon</em>. Instead of driving in the disgusting state of my vehicle, I decide to call an Uber to get my way to the station. I let John know that I'll be later than expected and that the whole person in my car thing has been a really strange ordeal. When I open up the app on my phone I remind myself of the stressful years spent in college and the various ride-sharing services that I've been jammed into with party-goers and frat/sorority folks alike. I never really hit it off with that social group as I really wanted to spend my senior year graduating instead of failing. It was worth it. </p><p> </p><p>        It only takes a couple of minutes to arrive at the office. I thank my driver and head in quickly. John meets me at the front. Inside, the entrance of the building has high ceilings and walls bordered with glass windows, filling the room with plenty of light. The thud of shoes and the occasional heel patters on the linoleum floors. There are various stands that hold brochures with important information and tips about keeping your family safe from crime. Kind of an oversight if you ask me.</p><p>        "Hey! Good morning," John greets me with a handshake. His grip is firm, almost crushing compared to mine, but it ends quickly. John is a tall and wise southern man. He's been around here for many years now and he has become one of the most experienced members in our branch. "There's a lot on our schedule today so make sure you get some breakfast before you start your day if you haven't already. We need everyone focused." </p><p>        I respond with a smile and a nod. I look to John's right and see a small girl, her blonde hair messy and her clothes slightly ill-fitting. She must be Sophia. </p><p>        "Oh hello!" I kneel down to reach Sophia's height and I take her hand while I introduce myself, "You must be Sophia?" </p><p>        Sophia doesn't respond. She seems almost skittish and she's clearly still shocked and confused from everything that's happened. I keep talking. </p><p>        "Has John taken good care of you? He's nice isn't he?" she gives me a short nod. I spot our secretary behind the desk, who gives me a look painted with pity.</p><p>         "Hey, Sophia. I heard that there are donuts in the cafeteria. Why don't you and my friend Marissa over here go and get some, okay?" I guide Sophia over to our secretary and go back to speak with John. He looks stressed too.   </p><p>        "Alright. Fill me in." </p><p>        "Well, we know for sure that this seems to be premeditated. Here come into the back with me and we'll talk." John says. </p><p>       We head past doors, desks, and cubicles until we reach John's desk. We sit down and he hands me more files to look at. </p><p>        "It seems we may have a professional of sorts." </p><p>        "What do you mean professional?" I ask, furrowing my brows.</p><p>        "All of this is <em>highly </em>premeditated. After everything we've looked at, the Bellhouse's seem more and more like targets. Both Joseph and Sadie were lawyers and Joseph seemed to have a pretty sketchy business with his father, Saul Bellhouse. Recently he was arrested for money laundering. <em>Very </em>recently. The tipper was anonymous which has police thinking that the family could've been targeted for this reason. He'll be questioned hopefully soon." John takes a sip from his coffee as I flip through the files. <em>A felony offense in money laundering, sentenced to 4 years in prison. </em></p><p><em>        "</em>Is this the only family member that you could get in contact with?" </p><p>        "Yes. We couldn't find anyone else. No other grandparents, no cousins, no aunt, and uncles. It's like only they exist." </p><p>        I get a sour feeling in my stomach. If Sophia's only other living relative is in prison, who's going to take care of her? </p><p>        "Are these the autopsy reports?" I ask. John gives me a look that tells me all I need to know. </p><p>        Reading through, the report goes into depth on how their bodies were mauled. After seeing Sophia's room, I'm not too shocked, but it still isn't something I like to hear about. The causes of death differ: blunt force trauma, exsanguination from multiple wounds, and brain hypoxia caused by suffocation. I give the file back</p><p>        "Then what's the plan?" </p><p>        John takes a deep breath. </p><p>        "We... have a few options we are considering. We haven't found much evidence from our tests but so far I think our best choice is to question Saul and then go from there. Maybe we can negotiate with his sentence if he opens up about what exactly happened." he responds. </p><p>        "That sounds good. Where should I start?" I sit up from my seat, eager to start my day. </p><p>        "I think for now you could help take care of Sophia. We have social workers and the foster services ordering out housing for her but I think she could use some time with someone to help her feel safe." </p><p>        "Right, I'll see you later. Good luck." </p><p>        My thoughts are jumbled as I head back to find Sophia but I try my best to clear it. If the murderers did have some sort of vengeance-premeditation-deal with Sophia's grandfather, she and him are likely in a ton of danger. They may be looking for her still and we can't let that happen. I turn the corner into our small cafeteria. It's not much of a cafeteria, more of a small kitchenette with space for round tables and chairs. I recognize Sophia sitting by herself with a cup of juice and a sizeable, pink donut. I pull out a chair and sit next to her. </p><p>        "Who are you?" Sophia looks at me, curious.</p><p>        "I'm a detective," I respond, telling her my name. </p><p>        "Are you gonna find the men who killed my family?" She asks. My heart gives a small pang of sadness. I give her a nod. </p><p>        "We're gonna do our very best." </p><p>        Sophia shuffles slightly before taking another bite from her donut. </p><p>        "You said they were men? Is there anything else you can remember about them? Do you know what they look like, or how tall they were even?" </p><p>        Sophia thinks for a second, then frowns. </p><p>        "They were wearing masks. I don't know what they look like. They were super tall though. Like," she lifts her arm into the air and stretches up trying to gauge their height. She gives up with a soft grunt, "super tall."</p><p>        The gesture makes me smile slightly. She was a cute kid. I remember the picture that I put in my bag and gasp slightly. </p><p>        "Sophia I have something for you actually!" I rummage around until I find it safe in a side pocket. Her eyes light up when I pull the picture out. I hand it to her. </p><p>        "I thought you might want to have it with you," I tell her. She hastily sets her donut down on her plate and stops herself before grabbing the picture. </p><p>        "I should wash my hands first," Sophia mutters. She sounds almost ashamed of herself. </p><p>        "That's alright! I'll set it here for now," I place it down on the table, "let's finish breakfast first." Sophia leans in her seat and gives me a tight hug. It surprises me at first but I make sure to hug her back. Her head is pressed into my side but I think I hear her muffle a small thank you. I rub her back with my hand and we pull away. </p><p>        I let Sophia go back to eating. I chose not to talk about much unless Sophia initiates it. She's probably already talked a lot about her family and what happened. It doesn't take long before her plate is just crumbs and she's chugged the last of her drink. I get up with her to show her the trash can and once she's cleaned the stickiness off of her hands and face I hand her the photo. She doesn't look at it and opts to just hold it by her side. </p><p>        Thinking of it, I don't know what to do with Sophia. I can't take her out anywhere and I have no idea what I can do in the office with her. I walk with her to John's office. Maybe he has some ideas that are safe enough for us to do right now.</p><p>        "Oh actually!" John steps up to me, "good you're back. A social worker is here to talk with Sophia. Thanks for watching her." </p><p>        I'm struck slightly with disappointment. At least a social worker will help Sophia get to a new home. John looks at me. </p><p>        "You can leave if you want. Right now is a waiting game," he says. I thank him and say goodbye to him and Sophia before leaving. </p><p>        "My parents call me Sophie," she blurts out, "you can call me that too. If you want." </p><p>        John says goodbye back and leads her up to her social worker. I head out to leave. It's still fairly early, I head straight home. I wonder why the Bellhouse's were targeted. The reason why is killing me. Were the murders used to teach Saul a lesson? It isn't too insane to think that maybe Saul was messing with someone else's money. Maybe he did the wrong thing or got caught by the wrong person and ruined it for somebody else. Or multiple somebodies. In the files John showed me it states that Sophie said there were three different men who broke into the house. Could Saul have been involved in something darker? Gangs? Drugs? </p><p>        If what John is insinuating is true-if there really is some full time criminal after the Bellhouse name-what could've happened to cause the death of a whole family save for one kid? It gives me shivers just thinking about it. Sophia's family could be involved in some seriously shady business, yet we could never know without talking to Saul. Sophia would likely be unaware of all of it. </p><p>        Feeling awful I push the door to my apartment open. I would've loved to have a house by now, but living in the inner city leaves little option for me. Hopefully, after more years of working, I'll make more income. I'm still pretty new to everything when you put things into perspective. It's around noon-ish and I have no big plans for today. Maybe I could take my own liberties to do some of my own research? </p><p>        I pull out a laptop and search up the Bellhouse business. Both lawyers. Even they could be the cause of all of this. Make the wrong mistakes and you piss off the wrong people. Scrolling through nothing seems sketchy. They handle domestic cases and they have near-perfect reviews. </p><p>        We certainly have a lot running on Saul right now, I just hope the old man isn't an ignorant asshole and is willing to give up some info to help give his family justice.</p><p>        My laptop closes with a slam and I sigh. There were three different causes of death. I'm guessing each man took on one person? That could explain how Sophia got away. I lay back on my couch and let myself sink into the cushions. My eyes close softly as I relax. I didn't get very good sleep last night. I start to doze off when I hear the harsh buzz of my doorbell. Ughhhh. </p><p>        Pushing myself up, I start to the door and look through the peephole. I don't recognize the man behind my door. I twist the door open for the tall brown-haired man. He looks tired, yet he had kind eyes. Taking a guess, he's somewhere in his 30s. His stare seems to look straight into my soul. With a hand scratching the back of his head he speaks.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Puddles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>  "Uh, can I use your phone, please." his voice has a tint of raspiness; subtly a smoker's voice, "I need to call my ride. He was supposed to show up 30 minutes ago and my phone died." He pulls out an old model flip phone and points at it. </p><p>        My mouth hangs open for a second as I search for the right words to say. </p><p>        "Yeah. Yeah, I guess." I shuffle for my phone and pass it over to him.         </p><p>        "Thanks" </p><p>        He takes a few seconds to call his friend, mentioning something about trying to remember the exact phone number. When he answers he seems really pissed, asking his friend where he is and demanding that he hurry. He hangs up and hands the phone back to me. </p><p>        "Thanks again. I really appreciate it. No one else would help me out, actually." </p><p>        "Don't worry about it. It's not that big of a deal. Hey, uh- if you want you can wait inside?" I offer him, "I know it can get pretty cold out there." He nods enthusiastically. </p><p>        "That sounds good yeah. My name is Tim,"</p><p>        "My name is Y/N," I smile, "it's nice to meet you."</p><p>        We sit down in my living room. I walk over to my kitchen and offer some water. He seems grateful and I pour him a glass with ice. I hand it to him and he takes it eagerly. I practically absorb the image in front of me. He's nearly six feet tall. His tan jacket and baggy jeans make his figure undefined but still noticeably masculine. When he takes the glass from me, I catch sight of his bruised and crooked knuckles as well as numerous cuts and scrapes. While it piques my interest, I don't bring up his injuries. Saying something about it would surely be rude, but it makes me wonder what his daily life could be to cause so much harm. </p><p>        I talk with him for a few minutes, mostly about the local area and other small talks. It doesn't take long for loud beeping to sound from the street. </p><p>        "That'll be me," he says, pointing towards the door. </p><p>        "Oh, okay!  </p><p>        I lead him out the door. I stand in the doorway and give him a short wave as I watch him shuffle down my front steps straight to his friend's car. I don't catch a glimpse of the driver-his face obscured by a bright yellow hood. I close the door and sit back down. Even when you live in a city, it's not often you meet new people unless you get out a lot. It was a significant struggle for me when I first moved down here.</p><p>        I start to think about that more. Maybe I should get out tonight? Even just for myself. I barely do anymore, mostly tied up with work, my only communication being with some family that stuck around and my coworkers. I grab my keys, not quite ready to face the monster that is my car. I step outside with a sweatshirt that only managed to keep me warm <em>enough</em>. I open my car with the jangle of my keys. It doesn't really smell at all anymore, which is confusing. Thinking back, I didn't leave my windows open to air anything out. It seems impossible that such a <em>real</em> smell could go away like that. But maybe John is right. Maybe I am imagining something. Maybe I am just that tired.</p><p>        I sit down and start the engine, pulling out from the side of the road. I decide to drive out to a nearby lake. There's a pretty big wooded area nearby (part of the beauty of this place) and it's not too late yet. I can afford the hour drive out there when I know it will be worth it. </p><p>        </p><p>        The drive there is mostly peaceful. I listen to some music and enjoy as much of the scenery I can while driving. Watching the crowded buildings slowly regress into suburbs then woods is almost a humbling experience. I arrive at the decently sized lake. The water is a muddy mixture of green and blue and the gentle waves glisten with blinding white like from the afternoon sun. It really was gorgeous. In summer, the destination is a hot spot, crowded with people in shorts and bikinis riding their boats and partying. In the winter, however, it looks almost untouched. The wind blows cool air from the frigid-not yet frozen-surface of the body of water. We haven't had our first big freeze of the year yet, but soon enough the lake will have a thick layer of ice. It used to be a spot I went back to in high school with some of my friends to go ice skating and skipping rocks just to hear the tiny glacier break and pop like sheets of glass. I remember distinctly a specific time where one rock that was large enough cause the sheet to crack all the way across the entire lake; snapping the ice in half. </p><p>        I really miss times like that when I didn't have to worry about much. Nor had I seen much death until my senior year. <em>Yeah, senior year.</em> I was surely a special year all by itself, but that year was hell for everyone in my graduating class after a student passed away. He was kidnapped. It brings back some pretty rotten memories, but good ones too. He was a close friend of many of us. </p><p>        I walk up to the edge of the lake to look for skipping stones. This side of the lake is mushier than the eastern side. There are fewer rocks here, leaving the soil exposed to the mercy of the tide. Piles of mud are scattered around puddles of water. I sink into it, ruining my shoes. I didn't care much about them anyway. The most expensive clothes I own are for work when it's required that I dress formally. The only other outfit I can even think of still owning is an old cocktail dress my friend bought for me once she had turned 21. She insisted we go out for some drinks together, I agreed but didn't have anything good to wear that night. </p><p>        My hand dips into one of the puddles. The water is frigid. I grab onto a dark grey stone, smoothed down from years of erosion. My thumb strokes its side before I reel back and chuck it across the lake. It skips a few times before sinking. <em>I was a lot better at this as a kid</em>. I watch the ripples in the water as I sink down lower. Water seeps into my shoes and everything starts to feel all <em>sludgy. </em></p><p>I move my sleeves over my fists and enclose them inside. I don't have any pockets and my hand is wet but I don't feel like losing any fingers. </p><p>        To be honest, the smell kinda bothers me. Maybe a little more than kinda. It feels like I'm flashing back to yesterday. Sure, it smells <em>much</em> cleaner here (only the smell of nature), yet my mind seems to be overriding my actual senses and I catch tiny whiffs of what my car smelled like. The death and water and suffering. I feel too close to it here. Rain clouds start to collect above me, making the area even colder in a matter of minutes. It only starts to sprinkle slightly, barely anything compared to our summer monsoon season, and the smell only gets stronger and more powerful. More unbearable. I start to gag. I step away from the side of the lake. My shoes let go with hesitance and a squelching sound from the suction. I turn around, trying not to vomit. </p><p>        This isn't good. Usually smells like this don't bother me. All the time I go into houses that still reek of death and are stained with blood. If this association carries into my work, what am I gonna do? I can't be working on a case and then cover the floor of the crime scene in my own vomit because I couldn't handle it. <em>Shit</em>. <em>I hope someone figures out something soon</em>. </p><p>        Raindrops start to fall down heavier and with much more urgency. I continue to squelch my way to my car, staring at my feet as I watch the puddles beneath me ripple too. I stop dead in my tracks when I swear I hear a groaning sound. When I hear something that sounds like it let out its final breath. No. A final wheeze. A gasp. I turn and look at the lake once more. I see a man, lying face down, water crashing onto him. Seeing the tone of his skin, he is surely dead. I rush over to him and turn him over, just in case. Something paramedics and doctors are careful to do is everything they can. No matter what. I go to start CPR when I see his face. Less disfigured than before, this is the man from yesterday, the man from in my car. The man who was dying and the man who is now dead. </p><p>        I'm unable to move. The man still has a film over his eyes, though underneath are bright blue eyes. The man had pepper-gray hair and looks to be roughly in his 50s or 60s if I had to guess. His skin is almost translucent now and I can see his blue veins below. I pull my phone out of my pocket and call 911. For real this time. I speak with the lady on the other side of the phone, on the other side of town, and explain my situation. She tells me that an ambulance will be here soon. I tell her the man is dead and she mentions something about dispatching police too. She hangs up. It's unbearable to look at. I force myself up and to my car. I need to sit down and I'm not doing it next to him. </p><p>        I prop open the door and sit in the seat with my feet dangling out the door frame. I wait and watch the waves as they now definitely drown him now that his body is facing the sky. I daze off as I watch him. The hour drive passes in minutes and the familiar flash of red is ingrained in my mind once again. An officer walks up to me and I explain what happened. I sound crazy. <em>I saw this man in my car last night but he disappeared and he definitely took the 45-minute walk from the Bellhouse residence the crash on the lakeshore and drown himself. Infallible logic. </em></p><p>        I give the officer my information as he asks various questions. Given the circumstance, he'd probably think I did it if it didn't look like he'd been here for days. When the officer leaves to file some paperwork, I close my eyes and lean against my seat. I start to shake a little. I don't understand. I <em>know</em> this is the man from my car, but that's impossible. Literally impossible. </p><p>        The officer returns to tell me that I can leave. </p><p>        "You look pretty exhausted and based on your records you live pretty far away. I can have one of my officers give you a ride if you'd like and we can tow your car back." the officer offers. </p><p>        I stare at him blankly for a moment. It takes me a second to fully digest what he says to me. </p><p>        "Huh? Um, I'm good. I think I'll be fine. I just had a long day at work today so my brain's a little fried." I tell him. </p><p>        He nods in understanding and leaves to work with his crew. </p><p>        This must be the nearest county's department. I don't recognize anybody here. I close my car door and turn on my lights. I need them. I need to know he's not gonna be back there with me instead of over there in the sand. Now that it's late evening (which I almost don't believe at first when I see the digits on my dashboard), I turn on my headlights and leave the woods as fast as I can. I need a hot meal, maybe a bath-wait <em>no- </em>definitely <strong>not</strong> a bath. I need a hot meal like ramen, and comfy clothes, some sleep, and a friend. I need a person. I need safety. </p><p>        On my drive home I see dozens of other vehicles heading up to the accident at the lake. For the first time, the sight truly gives me chills. It's well into the night once I finally get back home. The darkness scares me as I run up my front porch steps and fumble to open my front door with my keys. I'm quick to turn the lights on. The brightness instantly comforts me. I strip my clothes off tossing them in the bathroom so I can forget about tonight. I put the softest clothes I own on: fuzzy knee socks, baggy sweats, and an even bigger hoodie. I cook up a huge serving of ramen. I'll definitely have leftovers. I start to boil the water and I pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts. I look through them at my options. I scroll past John, Kari, Mom, and near the end of my contacts list. I see a name of someone that I don't remember. "Tim". The only Tim I've ever met, I met today, and I certainly don't have him in my contact list. </p><p>        I open the contact. I can barely remember my own number, but this number is completely unfamiliar. The area code isn't from here which certainly raises some suspicions. <em>Did Tim give me his number? </em>Is it possible he just came here to flirt? I think about how he had a slight handsomeness to the way he held himself earlier. </p><p>        I click <strong>message</strong> and stare at the text box and keyboard. The water behind me starts to boil and I add in some noodles before sending Tim a text. </p><p><strong>Y/N: </strong>Tim?    <em> sent 8:46 pm </em></p><p><strong>Y/N: </strong>Like "i need a ride" Tim     <em>sent 8:46 pm</em></p><p><strong>TIM: </strong>was giving you my number too much? sorry, i thought you were pretty    <em>sent 8:46 pm </em></p><p>Wow. That was... Fast. </p><p>
  <s><strong>Y/N:</strong> I was actually wondering how far away you were </s>
</p><p>Nope. That's not any good. </p><p><strong>Y/N: </strong>i dont know how to say this but i was actually wondering if you would like to join me for dinner. if you arent too far away of course. i have a 5-star Michelin meal of ramen waiting.     <em>sent 8:48 pm</em></p><p><strong>TIM: </strong>wow. 5-stars huh? must be a pretty good meal if the Michelin scale ends at 3. count me in.     <em>sent 8:48 pm</em></p><p><strong>Y/N: </strong>keep in mind our strict dress code *dress like a bum ;)      <em>sent 8:49 pm</em></p><p> </p><p>I sigh in relief. Excitement tingles down my spine. Isn't this technically a date? I continue to cook the ramen. I haven't gone out with a guy in <em>forever</em>. The closest it's been in a while have been outings with Kari and John. We practically lived at the karaoke place down the street.</p><p>        I fix up both of the bowls hoping it doesn't take him too long. It'd be a bad second, first impression if I gave him a cold dinner. I turn on the t.v. I hesitate. I know this isn't supposed to be formal but is putting the t.v. on rude? I opt to start up the fireplace instead. </p><p>        Am I gonna tell him about what happened? </p><p>        I start to regret calling him slightly. I'm glad to have someone here, yes, but maybe it would've been better to invite Kari over, or hell maybe even spend the night at Mom's. That would be the real throwback. </p><p>        I wait anxiously until my phone starts to buzz. </p><p><strong>TIM:</strong> i'm at your door. #407 right?    <em>sent 9:07 pm </em></p><p>I smile and rush to the door. I look through the peephole. He's here. I pull the door open. </p><p>        "Hey!" I exclaim. I'm glad to see Tim in some sweats too, but he's still wearing his tan jacket. He gives me a hey back and I invite him in. Once inside, he takes the jacket off. He looks around, clearly unsure of where to put it. I take it from him and hang it on a hook in a nearby closet. Underneath his jacket, Tim is wearing a tight, black long sleeve thermal. He has a <em>much</em> more defined form than when I met him this morning. In fact, he has large muscles in his arms. He's not extremely well built, but his heaviness is that of someone who is really strong. He probably lifts hundreds of pounds every day to have that body type, yet be healthy. The sight almost makes me blush.</p><p>        "Dinner, monsieur?" I ask as I gesture towards the two bowls of steaming ramen on my kitchen counter. </p><p>        "Smells really good!" he says. </p><p>        We eat together on the couch in the living room. We don't turn on the t.v. As we spend forever talking. We don't put our bowls away when we're finished as we're engrossed in our conversation. </p><p>        "Why did you decide to invite me back so soon? Honestly, I was expecting to have to message you first. How'd you even notice?" he asks me. </p><p>        I pause. He recognizes the concern on my face.</p><p>        "Is everything alright?" his tone is soft and caring. </p><p>        "Today was... pretty tough. I discovered a crime scene. Out by Lake Crowndow." I admit to him. </p><p>        "That must've been," he pauses as if choosing his words carefully, "really scary." he puts his bowl on a side table and places a firm grip on my shoulder. </p><p>        "It was pretty different."</p><p>        "Are you gonna be okay tonight?" he asks. </p><p>        Am I gonna be okay? No. I'm not. But I can't bring myself to tell him. </p><p>        "Could you," I start. I struggle a lot to get the right words out without sounding too much of a creep or too petty. </p><p>        "Would you mind staying. With me?" I manage to say. </p><p>        He smirks. </p><p>        "Yeah," he leans in close, brushing a stray hair out of my face, and whispering in my ear, "I'd like that." </p><p>        His hand moves down and caresses my face. My entire body tingles at the feeling. </p><p>        "Ya know, I meant it when I said I think you're pretty." </p><p>        "Oh yeah?" </p><p>        He nods. His grip squishes my cheeks and he pulls me in, pressing a soft peck to my lips. Is this really happening? This must be a dream. Am I gonna hook up with this guy? </p><p>        I kiss him back. As time passes, our little session gets more and more intense. I start to feel really hot as the blush I had tried to hold back earlier is painted over my face. I take him to my bedroom. </p><p>        There's a first time for everything I guess.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Not Good</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>        Hey guys. I planned on getting this out a little sooner but unfortunately, I slept in late (oops). Anyway, I want to say thank you for all of those that are reading this. It means a lot to me. Some of you may not know, but this is the second story I've written. My first has been on hiatus for quite a while and I have no idea what my plans are for it anymore. I'm working with it and trying to see where it can go but I'm honestly so lost right now. I barely did any outlining for it compared to this story, all I knew is how I wanted the story to end and I never really considered how I wanted to make the story move and flow. </p><p>        I'm actually really proud of this story so far just because of how my chapters have been written as well as my planning alone. I have so many good twists and shit that I can't wait to see you guys react to! This is also why I'm considering discontinuing my other story. Or at least putting it on a veryyyyy long hiatus because I want to start up another story. I've been very tempted to try and do two stories at once and When Time Stood Still is preventing that. Right now I do have a one-shot story that I've been working on for a little bit but I've mostly been writing for requests specifically. I just think I could do more if I finally come to terms with the mess I started and that-if I ever want to get something good out of it that I enjoy-I'm going to need to set aside a ton of time for it. </p><p>    With that being said, let me know what you think of the story so far! Also, feel free to look at my one-shot story and send me a request. There are only a few that I've written so far. You can find them here: www.quotev.com/story/11967867/Creepypasta-One-Shots. I'll probably do it because the reason I created it in the first place was that I wanted more practice with my writing and more variety with my scenes. It can be really hard to break away from the typical creepypasta setting and I'm really trying to make myself differ from other writers.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        I wake up late the next morning feeling tired and groggy. Overall, just exhausted. Everything from yesterday has effectively made me feel like shit. I get up from the warmth and comfort of my bed covers and head out to my kitchen. Tim is nowhere to be seen, but there's a bright pink sticky-note on the fridge door. I pull the note off and read the short message comprised of messy scribbles:<br/><em>"Had to leave for work, sorry. I would've woken you up but I wanted you to sleep in. Call me sometime?" -Tim. </em>I sigh. At least that's better than nothing I guess? I still can't help but feel duped with him not being here. Especially after last night, but I'm thankful he did let me get some extra sleep. I think I needed it.</p><p>        I crumple up the note and toss it into the trash can. I get myself a small bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. I enjoy my mediocre breakfast as I go through my emails and messages. All of my emails are my typical business stuff. I often get sent multiple articles and questions from people in my department. Those are nothing out of the ordinary. However, I have a ton of text messages from John, which now seems to be a new trend of mine. </p><p><strong>JOHN: </strong>i need you to come down here now     <em>sent 7:20 am</em></p><p><strong>JOHN: </strong>the case from Crowndow has been sent to us     <em>sent 7:24 am </em></p><p><strong>JOHN</strong>: that guy you found, it's a bit deeper than we expected      <em>sent 7:25 am</em></p><p><strong>JOHN:</strong> and it's not looking too good     <em>sent 7:25 am</em></p><p><strong>JOHN:</strong> are you still not awake? this is urgent     <em>sent 7:47 am</em></p><p>        I look at the time. It's almost 10, nearly 3 hours after John started texting me. What could the man from the lake have to do with any of our cases that so important? Maybe there's been a DNA match. I rush the rest of my breakfast and get out of the door as soon as possible, putting the rest of my coffee into a thermos. Today is colder than most, grey clouds still coat the sky and some of the roads are slick with ice from yesterday's rain. It takes me a couple more minutes than usual to get to work. When I arrive, there are many police cars in the parking lot. It isn't uncommon for there to be police at our offices. We work hand in hand and nothing would be possible without our teamwork, yet today there are many more than usual. I walk through the glass doors into the lobby. It's busy. </p><p>        I scan the room looking for any familiar faces. I see a few, busy talking to the officers. Some seem to be casually chatting while others almost seem to be getting questioned. I head to the back of the building where our desks are. I can hear John before I even turn the corner. </p><p>        "I need you all out of here. We can't have this many officers, not now. The last thing we need is to track negative attention." John yells. </p><p>        "I understand, but this is now a much larger investigation. You can't push us out of this." John opens his mouth, ready to protest the officer's opinion but he quickly interrupts. "A man was smuggled from his prison cell-practically disappearing from thin air-and is found hours later and <em>miles </em>away dead in a lake. Later found by one of your employees at that, on a case where his input is <em>highly</em> significant. This isn't just a joint investigation. What happened put this case in jeopardy and I'll be dammed if it was because of y'all." </p><p>        Before I even entered the room I was already immersed in the near-gossipy conversation. Is this man talking about me?    </p><p>             I walk over and make eye contact with John. He seems rough around the edges today. Usually, he can hide his stress exceptionally well. It's important to be presentable in a workplace that sees so many people in times of grieving. It can be scary to the people we work for if we seem even a little uncertain. </p><p>        The man speaking to John is short and pudgy and he's balding at the top. His fat droops over his belt and gun holster. He looks over at me with a face of pure disdain.</p><p>        "So she finally shows up, I thought you said [y/n] was a responsible worker, John. Any reason why she's showing up almost at noon."</p><p>        "If you'd consider the fact that she discovered a dead body last night, I think you'd understand why she's being excused for her tardiness today. She doesn't even work on Mondays." </p><p>        I ignore the ignorant man in front of me. I <em>am</em> a responsible worker.</p><p>                        "John, may I talk to you in private, please?" I walk towards one of our few offices, the only real rooms back here. Nobody gets to stay in them unless they're really important, in which their last name is stamped across the glass window of the room's door. I'm not too close with those important people, but I know that they're amazing workers. The rest of us typically get our stuff done in our open, cubicle areas and use the offices when talking to families-for privacy reasons. I guide John into one that's been made into a storage room, filled with stock for the lounge (mostly water jugs for the water cooler, coffee, and sugar). </p><p>        "What the fuck is happening?" I say, panicking. </p><p>        "The man you found in the lake last night was Saul." </p><p>        It takes me a minute to fully grasp what John says. When I do, it's like I'm suddenly there again, staring down at the old, dying man. Helpless.</p><p>        "I wish I could've told you more formally." He tells me.</p><p>        "Does-" I pause thinking back to John's conversation with the officer. Everything about his behavior towards me and his persistence in observing us already answers the question brewing in my mind, "Does he think I did all of this?"</p><p>        "There are people who think that yes, but we're on your side. Don't worry. We're doing everything to help keep you in the clear right now. But he's incredibly stubborn and it can be hard to convince people that coincidences exist." </p><p>        "People?! Multiple people think I killed Saul?"</p><p>        John nods.</p><p>        "Does he really think I could pull this off? No matter how tall and strong I could ever be, I don't think I'd ever have the capability of smuggling Saul out of a prison. Just because he's old doesn't mean he's weak or easy to push around either. Hell, my job wouldn't even help me take Saul out of prison legally. Who does this man think he is?" I look to John but he's quiet at my response. </p><p>        "How long do I have to work with him?" I ask.</p><p>          "I'm thinking until the case is solved, or at least until we can figure out who has the vendetta against Saul." </p><p>        I sigh and push my hair out of my face, gripping at the roots. I'm angry but most of all I'm frustrated and sad and scared all at the same time. Innocent people get locked away every day and I could be next; locked in prison for calling the police, for doing the right thing.        </p><p>        "Don't freak out yet, okay? This... may be a good thing." </p><p>        I guess my confused expression is enough to tip John off, so he starts to explain. </p><p>        "We have more people involved and more focus on this case alone. Once we can get everyone on your side, solving Saul's death can actually help our case if we haven't already figured things out by then. I wouldn't be surprised if these murders are connected. We haven't had much press since the other day, but maybe it was enough for the murderers to see it and realize there's another tie they need to cut? Even if we hadn't mentioned to anyone that we were interested in Saul. If so, they were pretty spot-on, which help <em>a lot.</em> Think about it. They could be a lot smarter than we thought. In fact, we're already setting up new precautions to make." He glances out of the office window looking at the workplace. "Actually, I think you might be in danger." </p><p>        "Why would you think that." </p><p>        "While all of this is a coincidence, you <em>are </em>a detective working on a high priority case <em>annnd</em> you found the body of the only known relative who could possibly have information that others won't give. If I'm right, and these murders are connected, any publicity suggesting that you are involved can show them that you are a threat. You are more connected than any of us and you have more of a motive. They may try to frame you since you're an easy and believable scapegoat or they could do worse.</p><p>        "That's why I'm trying my best to prevent any media attention. No news, no articles, not even any updates. And also why I'm practically begging <em>Kent </em>out there to get at least some officers to leave. Have you seen how many cruisers are outside? I'm surprised we don't have more people up our asses trying to snoop around." he explains.</p><p>        Woah. It's probably crossed my mind once or twice, but I've never really thought of the possibility of being targeted because of my job. Now that I think about it, I'm surprised I don't see it more often. It gives me shivers down my spine. Am I in danger? Are these people gonna kill me? More importantly, how did I manage to see Saul's death before it happened? That man in my car, that was Saul. I know it was. He was more dead and rotting, but it was him. Somehow just know it.</p><p>        "I guess that makes sense, yeah." I say, "what do I do then. Can I try working at home at all?" </p><p>        "Huh, that may actually be a good idea. I was thinking of taking you off of the case, but this way you can help us still. Even if it's mostly paperwork. We should try that."</p><p>        Fun. It's not my favorite, yet it's better than nothing I guess. Definitely better than death.</p><p>        John takes me back to the workroom and he collects some files from his desk. He gives them to me, telling me which ones I should look at first. I thank him and go to head home when I'm interrupted by the officer from earlier who John referred to as Kent. </p><p>        "Leaving already? Huh."</p><p>        I want to ignore him as I did earlier, but instead, I pull out a large smile and offer him my hand to shake. He indecisively shakes my hand.</p><p>        "It's nice to meet you," I tell him. Before he can say much, I walk past him and exit the building.</p><p>        It is raining now and I have to rush back to my car. Once I'm in I listen to the soft pitter-patter of the raindrops on the metal of my car. My hands hold a sweaty grip on the steering wheel. I've never worked at home before. In fact, most of my coworkers haven't. We typically don't find the need to do work at home unless we're sick or unable to be there in person. Nonetheless, I know it's going to be more boring than my usual work. Without the aspect of my job that isn't just paperwork, this job becomes incredibly dull. It doesn't feel like I'm solving or fixing anything        </p><p>         I sit for a minute listening to the hum of the engine. I have no idea what I'm gonna do if this doesn't work out, but I'm going to try and keep hope throughout this. It's the most I can do for myself right now. </p><p>        </p><p>        When I arrive at home, I take a minute to think everything over. I sit with the files in front of me. They're all thick and filled with papers. I set my phone on silent and start working through the piles. It takes hours to finish the first few piles and fully check my work, making sure I haven't made any mistakes. Groaning, I sit back and look at the time. My eyes are fuzzy and tired from the amount of focus they've had to use for so long. It's late now and I should probably be going to bed soon. I'm tired enough to do so, but my mind is running at a thousand miles a minute. </p><p>        I head to my bedroom but stop in front of my bathroom door. Maybe today would be a good time for a little self-care? I worked my ass off today and the stress I've gone through lately has definitely put me through it. Yesterday the world attached me by the foot to the back of a car and today the world decided to take that car on a joyride, dragging me through the mud. </p><p>        I enter my small bathroom. For the price and the size of my apartment, I'm not too upset about the size of the room. Luckily, the tub is just big enough for me to be satisfied. If it were any smaller, I don't think I'd be able to enjoy baths at all. I turn the faucet to hot and rummage through my cabinets. I gather up my small collection of bath supplies I've gathered throughout the years: soaps, bath bombs, candles. Looking at the pile I think I could afford to do this more often. Especially since I expect to be home more often.</p><p>        Before lighting a few candles, I pick a random bottle of bubble bath and strip down. Squeezing the bottle, I let the light purple liquid mix into the water. It smells good. I dim the lights a little bit. Enough to be able to see, as well as keep the mood I've created with the candles. I step into the bath. There's nothing better than being able to fully submerge your body in the warmth of the water. </p><p>        Soaking in the water, I let the heat relax my sore muscles and I lean my head back. I lay there for what only seems to be a few minutes before my lights go out. <em>Shit</em>. The candles can only keep so much lit, so it's still pretty dark. I drag myself out of the tub and put on a robe to go investigate. I start by trying to turn the lights in the bathroom up. It doesn't change anything, so I grab my phone and head out into the hall. I use my phone's flashlight to navigate the dark house. Maybe a powerline was knocked over. It could've gotten windy while I've been inside. I open the door slightly to look outside at the weather. </p><p>        It's stopped raining. There's no wind either. None of the other apartments near me have seemed to lose their power either. <em>Did I forget to pay the bills?</em> Nah. I'm sure I did. I close the door. Unlocking my phone, I check to see if there's any reported reason why my power might be off. Maybe I'm on a different grid from the neighbors next to me somehow. I consider calling my power company, but before I can the lights suddenly turn back on. That's weird.</p><p>        I walk back into the bathroom, the room now cold. The lights are all the way on. I start unraveling the tie to my robe. As soon as I look up at the bathtub I let out a terrible scream. There's a small window high on the wall in the room. The glass is smashed and the jagged pieces stuck to the window frame is bloodied. In the water is a dead man. He has deep gashes all over his body, which fills the bathwater with its red pigment. I'm shaking and my throat is sore. <em>This isn't fucking happening. No. Not again. </em>I refuse to let this happen again. </p><p>        I try to compose myself but I'm stuck in place, trying to figure out what to do. Should I really call the cops at this point? I'm already a suspect, so what the hell am I supposed to do. Two dead bodies within two days is not how you become a neighborhood hero. They're just going to see another murder done by me. I look down at my phone. Who can I call? Is there anybody who would even help me? I don't even know if my mom would stoop that low. </p><p>        I scream again. What is wrong with me? I didn't kill this man. Doing anything with his body is gonna get me in more trouble than anything else. I just need to find a way to represent myself, right? Find a way to make my story seem believable. The problem is, it isn't. I don't even believe myself. Hyperventilating, I notice something on my cabinet door. A sticky-note.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Who Could Love Someone Like Me?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        I pluck the sticky note off of the cabinet door. It's crumpled and the 'sticky' part is losing its adhesive. I read the front. It's the same sticky note Tim left of my fridge the other day, with a few added words at the bottom. </p><p>        <em>"Why did you throw me away?"</em> </p><p>        I'm freaked out. Are they trying to involve Tim, too? What kind of fucked up person would plan something like this? How could someone have gotten into my house to put that there without me seeing them? The mere thought makes me want to vomit. There's no possible way I can think of anyone doing that, but then again, someone threw a fucking body into my bathtub. The only possible way this could've happened is if they were extremely well hidden, pushed into the darkest corners of my house. </p><p>        I scan the man in the room. His body was definitely pushed through my window. Whoever did it had to have been strong, <em>really </em>strong, to lift him up so high. I rack my brain. While it's technically not impossible-there are always crazy crime scenes in the world-I don't think I've ever seen something quite like this. </p><p>        I thumb the phone in my hand. Should I call Tim? I'm torn. If, by chance, he has absolutely nothing to do with this, what am I supposed to say? If he does, would he know why I'm calling in the first place? Whoever is behind this, they're trying to involve him in some way, so maybe we can work together and try to help each other. Maybe he knows something that I don't yet. </p><p>        My growing headache makes it hard to think. I never thought I'd be <em>that </em>person who doesn't call the cops in fatal situations. You hear about it all the time: someone who has a warrant or is doing drugs, doesn't call the cops when bad things happen. All it ever does is fuck them over, but here I am, being that person because I'm too afraid of the consequences caused by a coincidence. This is such bullshit. I've never felt more angry and frustrated. It feels like there's no good option. </p><p>        My legs start to wobble. I'm still high on loads of adrenaline keeping my body alert and oriented. I sit down on the toilet seat next to the dead man and try and focus on calming down. I take deep breaths. I even close my eyes for a bit - as if any sort of meditation would even possible right now. I turn to look at him. He seems young and tired. Dark, purple bags sit under his dead stare. Much like Saul, he's sinking below the water. He too is helpless. I'm careful not to touch him. I'm paranoid at the thought of being connected to this murder. If I was, they'd happily blame me for Saul, too. The man has a thick, deep cut across his neck. It's surely what took his life.</p><p>        For the next few minutes, I switch from fumbling around with my phone and sitting there, waiting until a choice comes to me. I try to use logic and reasoning the best I can, but it's incredibly hard when my mind is this fuzzy. I'm never this upset at work, yet what's in front of me is so personal. It hurts to see. For a mere moment, I consider whether or not this is what John warned me about. I consider that whoever is behind this could be the same people behind the Bellhouse family homicide and now they are here, ready to stick this case onto me like a knife into skin. </p><p>         I shake that thought off of myself. I need it out of me. It makes my stomach churn and ache. I open my texts with Tim. The only thing here now is the messages from the other day. I think back to his charm and how he made me feel when I told him what had happened. He made me feel safe. Safer than I've ever felt while alone at home after a particularly difficult day. I hit 'call'. There's a tiny bit of silence before the first ring starts.</p><p>        <em>One.</em> I may have felt warm at the thought of him before calling, but now my back feels sore and tingly and my stomach is starting to flutter with anxiety. Why am I so fucking anxious? </p><p>        <em>Two. </em>The feeling only intensifies. My breathing starts to speed up again as I hear the second drawn-out sound. I shouldn't have called. I should just hang up. </p><p>        <em>Three</em>. I suddenly feel flustered and embarrassed and not in a cute, love-y way. I feel it in a disappointed way. I feel it in a way I have never felt before. My face heats up and I pull the phone away from my face. Soon after, I hear the third beep get interrupted as someone finally picks up the phone.</p><p>        "Y/N?" I hear. I don't say anything for a few seconds. I don't know what to say. I didn't even think this through.</p><p>        "He- Hello?" I speak into the phone. My voice is uncertain. </p><p>        "What's up?" he says. He sounds excited to talk to me. </p><p>        "I uh- did you know Saul? A man named Saul Bellhouse." </p><p>        Tim is quiet for a while. It sounds like he might have been racking his mind to see if he knew anything. I hear some shuffling before he speaks again.</p><p>        "I'm coming over," he says in a gruff tone of voice. </p><p>        "No no no-" my panic rises, "I really don't want anyone over today." Before I can finish, Tim has hung up. I'm hyperventilating, rushing to think of anything I can do to hide the body. If he finds him, I'm sure he'll turn me in. Everything will be ruined. All the life I've worked for will be gone forever. </p><p>        I stick my hand into the bathtub and start to drain the water. The blood leaves a bright red ring around the tub and is all the way up my arms now. I turn the shower on and vigorously scrub my arms, watching the blood wash off. I make sure to use soap before I finish. Rushing back to my cabinet, I pull out a couple of towels. Maybe I can try to cover him until Tim leaves? </p><p>        Using the 3 towels that I have, I throw them over the man's body and try to conceal his figure. I hear knocking at my door. <em>Shit</em>. I look at the job I've done. It's awful. You can tell that somebody is underneath the towels, especially since they're starting to soak up his blood. <em>Jesus fuck what am I going to do? </em>The knocking gets louder and harsher the longer I wait. I look down at myself. I'm still wearing nothing but my robe, but I have no choice but to answer the door. </p><p>        I turn off the bathroom light and close the room's door. Striding through the kitchen and living room, I turn on the TV. Hopefully, I can convince him that I was watching something. I open the door slowly, peeking out. I can tell that it's Tim. He's wearing the same tan jacket he wore when I first met him and his figure is still tall and bulky.</p><p>        "There you are-" Tim pushes the door open all the way and invites himself in. I try to stop him, but I can barely resist him. He's strong.         </p><p>        "I thought you'd never answer the door." Tim shuts the door behind him and locks it. I don't know whether to be flattered or not that he seems to feel at home in my apartment already. "What is it? Cat got your tongue?"         </p><p>        He says the idiom with a bright smile. It's cute and makes me smile nervously. However, in the back of my mind, I can't help but have the same thought race through me. <em>There's a fucking body in there.</em> </p><p>        During my silent response, Tim looks me up and down with greedy eyes. He comes closer. I step back. This shakes him out of his temporary trance. He seems disappointed. </p><p>        "What is it?" His voice is soft and calm, yet it practically forces me to answer.</p><p>        "Nothing. Nothing's wrong." I insist, but my voice cracks and waivers. </p><p>        "Are you sure?" He asks. All I do is nod. "Why'd you call?" </p><p>        "I thought you'd know why." </p><p>        Tim sighs and holds onto me, leading me to join him on the couch. He makes me sit down with him while we talk. I cling onto the folds of my robe, holding them close to my body. Not only is it fairly chilly in my living room, I can't help but feel like I'm being watched. Obviously, I am, but I feel something stronger there, someone who holds me to a stronger value. For a minute, I think that maybe it's my god, waiting and watching til I make the wrong choice. </p><p>        "How do you know Saul?" I ask. Tim makes a whiney, sigh before responding. A sound your mom or dad would make to tell you: "you're too young to understand" without using the words. </p><p>        "Saul wasn't a good man, [Y/N]." I look at him, my emotions are undecided.</p><p>        "That didn't answer my question." </p><p>        "We were... Business associates of sorts. So yeah, I knew him a bit" Tim says. </p><p>        I eye him down. The only business we really knew Saul for was his crimes. Tim closes in on me again and speaks sweetly. </p><p>        "Look. It's not too important. I know now isn't a good time for you. You look like you were gonna take a bath or something? Let me help you start it up. I know you're still shaken from the other day. It's okay to need a helping hand sometimes." Tim drones on with his words, but I'm stuck in time as soon as he says bath. <em>No, I don't want to take a bath</em>. I look for anything reasonable to say, but instead, I blurt out what comes to mind first.</p><p>        "You can't go in there!" I gasp, horrified that I could say something so blatantly stupid. I didn't mean to be so brash. It certainly won't help. What a way to not raise suspicion. <em>Fuck I'm such an idiot.</em> </p><p>        "Awww, come on <em>sunshine</em>. It's okay. There's nothing to be embarrassed about." the way he speaks now is sickly sweet. Bittersweet. The way he calls me sunshine arouses strain between me and him. There's no way he can't feel it. There's no way he can't read the painful discomfort in the room. Even if he couldn't feel it, there's no way he can't see it on my face. All scrunched up and tensed, my teeth grinding against each other. <em>There's a fucking body in there. </em>He stands up to walk to the bathroom. I shoot up from my spot on the couch to stop him. </p><p>        "Please. I already took a bath before you got here. I don't need another one." I'm trailing after him. The closer he gets to the bathroom door, the more I do to try and stop him. Instead of my words, I resort to using my hands, gripping around his biceps, and pulling him back with as much force as I can. The most it does is tug at his arm, causing him to turn around and grab me. </p><p>        "Come on. No excuses. You really need to take care of yourself okay?" </p><p>        He pulls me further to the bathroom. I can only let out short, rapid breaths, and what barely sounds like a "no". I feel like I'm going insane. Today he seems so forceful and rude, but then I think back to yesterday when he was so kind and considerate and loving to me. Thinking about it, he only seems so pushy because of <em>why</em> I don't want him to take care of me. In actuality, I know he's trying to be good and do good. He said he wants me to take care of myself. It's obvious he wants me to feel better, yet I don't want him to hate me. I don't want him to open that door and see that body and think of what a monster I am. <em>God fucking dammit</em>. I could've done everything so much better. I could've been an honest person. He might even believe me. </p><p>         I loathe and adore him. I want him to leave - I want him to vanish. Part of me wants him to stay. Most of me wants him to take me through that door and slam me onto the stone-textured linoleum my landlord spent too much money on, leaving me there as he calls the cops. More of me wishes I called my mom. At least then, I could tell her I'm sorry because right now, I'm ruined.</p><p>        Tears have started falling down my face by the time we walk into the bathroom. He practically had to carry me inside. I let out a pathetic sob. He closes the door. </p><p>        "[Y/N], what is all of this?" Tim sets me down on top of the toilet seat. I feel tired and broken. I know I've already lost the weak fight I put up. I don't do anything to stop him as he pulls one of the bloodied towels back, revealing the man's face. Tim makes a sound of... pity? </p><p>        "<em>Oh, baby...</em>" he turns toward me, grabbing me on the face His thumbs rub my tear-stained cheeks as he talks. "What happened?" his tone is reminiscent of someone talking to a baby or a dog. It's delicate and it lilts every so often, his pitch much higher than his regular speaking voice. It's almost comforting as more tears start to fall and wet the bottom of my robe. </p><p>        "I didn't do this. I-" he starts to shush me, cutting me off. </p><p>        "Shshshsh, it's okay, it's okay. You don't have to pretend anymore. We all make mistakes, sweetheart." </p><p>        I look up at him through the blurriness in my eyes. Mistakes? He doesn't believe me? How stupid am I to think he'd believe me? </p><p>        "Come on. Pick up these towels. They won't help at all over here. Lay them out on the floor." </p><p>        Without thinking, I do what he says. I'm at his mercy now, so I might as well do what he says. I grab the towels off of the man's body lay them down as Tim asked me to. Once I'm done, I turn to face him. His jacket his stripped off and placed neatly on a nearby counter. Tim pulls the body up and he hoists it over his shoulder, taking the man out of the bathtub and placing him on top of the towels. </p><p>        We spend the next hour cleaning up the mess in the bathtub and everything that's dribbled onto the floor. Tim is tedious and emphasizes that we must scrub down the sides of the tub with multiple cleaners to make sure everything is properly cleaned. When we finish, I look up at the broken window. </p><p>        "What do we do about that?" I say softly. Tim follows my gaze. He hums. </p><p>        "We'll fix it when we get back, dear." </p><p>        <em>God, what am I doing?</em> Running in my head is everything I'm doing wrong, but every image is struck down by my subconscious. "What else could you really have done," it tells me and I realize that the answer is "nothing".</p><p> </p><p>        Tim carries the body into the trunk of my car. We're lucky. It's late and this side of town isn't bustling far into the night. No one should've seen us. Dubiously, I get into the passenger seat and let Tim drive me into the woods. We aren't too far from Crowndow, but we skip the lake, instead going deeper and deeper. We pull off of the main road onto a tiny dirt path. It surely isn't made for a car, but Tim takes the road like he knows where it leads. It feels like we drive for forever until Tim finally stops. We step out together. Immediately, Tim is at the back of my car, taking out the body. I look around. The trees here stand tall like skinny poles, but the forest is still incredibly dense. Their canopies almost completely shade the forest floor, only letting a few beams of moonlight fall down. Even after years of living here, I can't say I've ever seen this part of the woods. I've never had any reason to go any deeper. It's near impossible to see, but Tim doesn't seem to be having any problems with it. </p><p>        Again, Tim has the unknown man's body slumped over his shoulders. He starts slugging him deeper into the green woods, further off from the already deserted dirt path we drove up on. I shoot a curious look at the back of Tim's head, but I follow him nonetheless. Walking off of the path, I step through clumps of foliage and moss, my shoes causing soggy leaves to squelch under me. Tim stops in front of me and drops the body onto the floor. He turns to face me.</p><p>        "Alright, let's go," he says.</p><p>        "What do you mean," I stutter. That was way too quick to be over so soon, "shouldn't we bury him or something? Someone's gonna find him!"</p><p>        "Don't worry, nobody will find him here." I give Tim an uncertain look. I am not at all comfortable leaving him like this. It's stupid. The least we could do is at least try to cover his body. </p><p>        "Just look around. All this growth. No one comes here. If anyone were ever to find him, it'd be years at least." Tim tells me. "So come on, it's time to go." </p><p>        Tim places a firm grip on my shoulder and leads me through the darkness back to my car. I suddenly feel scared and ashamed all over again. What has come over me? How come I've let myself become such a bad person? Especially in the course of a few days; a couple dozen hours. Getting into the passenger seat, I realize how much I've lost myself. I've let myself lose everything. In what world would I be able to go back to work and not look at John and Kari and my other coworkers and not want to blurt out all of my mistakes. How could I ever look at them and not want to turn myself in? How can I go home to my mom for Christmas and not feel like shit when I look her in the eyes? How can I continue working on this case and not think about every single way I've already failed Sophia, despite all the passion I once felt to help her? </p><p>        Tim drives away back to my apartment as I spiral into my thoughts. The ride is silent except for the car radio which is playing some sort of podcast segment. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to understand myself, because lately I clearly don't understand myself. Why am I doing this? Why am I letting him do this?</p><p>        "Tell me what's on your mind," Tim speaks abruptly, "I know you're going through a lot. I didn't lie about all of that self-care shit I mentioned earlier." </p><p>        "I didn't even know his name, yet I buried him. Shit, I didn't even bury him. We just left him there." I say.</p><p>        "There's nothing you need to worry about. I promise you." </p><p>        "How can you say that?" I scream at Tim. "You don't know anything, This changes everything. I don't even know if I can go back to work after all of this shit." </p><p>        My voice cracks as I throw my anger onto Tim. He really doesn't understand. He never could. He doesn't know everything I've lost. </p><p>        It takes longer than what I expected to finally get back home. After my tiny argument with Tim, we didn't speak much for the rest of the ride. Instead, I opted to press my face against the cold window, feeling the warmth of my skin disappear to the mercy of the icy weather. My eyes burn from all the crying I've done today and my face feels like it's dried tears would be stuck forever. I never quite realize that we've arrived until Tim shows up at the passenger door and he opens it, unleashing a chill and disrupting me from my death stare. I look up at him. I feel like a deer caught in headlights. It feels like I should be hit by a car any minute, but the car never comes. Rather, Tim picks me up and carries me straight through my door and into my front room. I can't even remember where he got my keys from. </p><p>        He carries me directly to my room after taking off his heavy shoes, somehow while carrying me still. He lays me down and tucks me in. For a few minutes, he disappears completely. If I weren't mentally and physically exhausted, I may have thought that he'd left. I'm mostly just tired and by the time Tim comes back into my room with the heat turned on and a glass of water I've almost passed out. </p><p>        Tim places the glass down on my nightstand and crawls into the other side of my bed. He nestles up close to my body and wraps an arm around me. I listen to the sound of his breath and sense it on my neck. </p><p>        "It's okay to go to sleep." he whispers to me. I can only hum in response, too tired to even think of what I want to say. I let myself drift and keep drifting, hoping that I sleep to darkness rather than I nightmare. Hoping that I wake up and that none of this ever happened, yet I know my hurt is too real to ever be a dream.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That feeling when you're so caught up about not being framed for a murder, that you don't notice your secretly homicidal hook-up-boyfriend stating that the guy he "thinks" you killed is a mistake that everyone makes. Yikes. </p><p>I'm genuinely so sorry about how long this took to finish guys, but it's finally here! New chapter! I'm fairly happy with the turn out with this one, yet I still think it's far too rushed? Even in this 10-page chapter, I feel like so much felt forced. What do you guys think? Should I slow things down for future chapters or should I keep this train rolling? It's been somewhat difficult to properly pace the story as a writer. I think when you're a reader, it's so easy because you're taking it all in from a different perspective. A consumer's perspective. For me, all these ideas I use for my chapters have been brewing in my THINK BOX for a while now (some even for years, before I even started writing fanfics), so when I'm writing everything feels so natural. </p><p>But then I step back and realize. Oh. Two dead bodies within two days? No, not fast-paced at all. </p><p>Also, I've been updating headcanons and writing tips on my Tumblr so if you're interested in that stuff, you can see all of my social links in my bio. It's not much but I've been using it a lot to express my mind about the headcanons I really, really love. I'm actually considering making a fanfic writing book on here just for fun when I want to talk about writing techniques I use, cliches, and rants (of course mostly aimed at creepypasta for now). So with that being said, thank you all for reading! I hope you share this with all of your buddies :). </p><p>(Also for my AP peeps - God speed)</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Dreams</h2></a>
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  <em>        The incessant flashing of lights makes pain throb at the back of my head. The loud whirring of police sirens shut off as cruisers situated themselves along my street. My face is soaked with tears. I'm on my knees, hands limp at my sides, shaking uncontrollably. They're drenched in blood. His blood. </em>
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  <em>        The man's body lay lifeless in front of me. The man who I took a knife to, slitting his throat and ending his life. I don't know why I did it. I don't even remember doing it, but in the back of my mind, there's a nagging voice saying it was me. It tells me over and over that his death was my fault. I can't recall who the man is. There's something about him that seems familiar, yet I can't tell how. I can't pinpoint where we may have met, nor can I even think of a name to put to his face. </em>
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  <em>        Why have I done this? </em>
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  <em>        My consciousness starts to get foggy. I'm having trouble focusing on anything other than the boy. I did this. I took his life away from him. He was still so young. He was in the prime of his life, college-aged and still discovering the world and his place in it. I ripped all of that away and I had no reason to. It wasn't an act of self-defense when I grabbed him from behind and slid the knife across his skin. He was at my mercy. </em>
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  <em>        There's a series of heavy blows at my door. The force of the strikes makes my apartment shake. I can feel the vibrations travel through the floor. They're trying to break my door down. They're here to take me away. Arrest me for my crimes and make me repent for my sins with a hefty sentence and a massive bail. The door comes crashing down as it is thrown off of its hinges. </em>
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</p><p>        My body jolts as I wake up. I take a moment to try and collect myself, but I can't. I glance over at my bedside table. It's 3 PM. Fuck. My entire skull is in excruciating pain. I force myself to lay back down because the pressure is causing everything to throb and pulse. I'm horribly congested and I'm freezing. I think I'm coming down with a cold. I'm not too surprised given all the stress I've been under lately. My brain can't handle it, and so my body has decided to give out so I can stop pushing myself past my limits. I'm being told that I need a break. </p><p>        I ease myself up and pull my feet from the warmth of my bed covers. Immediately, I'm taken over by a chill. Swinging my legs over the side of my bed, I let my soles brush against the wooden floorboards. They're practically frozen. </p><p>        As I sit on the edge of my bed, I take a minute to try and breathe. Before I know it, fat tears are rolling down my face. They pool at the tip of my nose and drip down my chin, covering my face in cold wetness. I'm exhausted. Last night has me exhausted. I start to shake slightly. Memories from last night seem to seep back into my psyche like poison. Anxiety starts to swirl around my stomach and in my back. There's a frog in my throat that makes me feel like I could vomit all over myself any minute.</p><p>        Tim and I never buried the man we found in the bathroom. I think it's one of the mistakes I regret the most from last night. I wish I could change it. I didn't kill him, but hiding his body is almost equally awful. His parents would never be able to hold a funeral for him. They would never be able to say goodbye. Instead, we left him exposed to the elements. To the rain pouring down late that night and the snow to come in the next few days as winter finally approaches. We left him laying on a pile of dirt, leaves, and brush. </p><p>        I glance back at the empty space on my bed. Regardless of what Tim has said to me, I know deep down that there's nothing I did to contribute to the nameless man's death. Tim thinks I did it, but Tim is also the one who came up with the idea of getting rid of the body. I won't get out of this mess easily, but that is something I can work on. I wasn't the one who carried the body. I wasn't the one giving out the orders. We both did this, yet Tim did more than me. I could find a way to pin him as the mastermind. I have no other choice. Plus, Tim's gone again. He didn't have a single word to say before leaving me alone with pushed back blankets and cold sheets. I don't trust him very much. Something about him is wrong. Something in the way he held himself last night. It sends chills down my spine. </p><p>        It feels like he doesn't care about me at all. We barely know each other, so I don't blame him, yet last night was different. Before then, he seemed like just a regular guy. A regular hook up. Now, I see a contrasting side to him. He's keeping me close, but keeping his distance. I don't know what to make of it. </p><p>        We aren't even in a relationship, though something about the way that he's left again - after what we went through together - rubs me the wrong way. I'm incredibly upset, but I'm also scared. I'm starting to regret trusting him so easily. Sobs pour out of my body, relentless. I'm unable to get yesterday out of my head. Tim thinks I killed that man and there's no way I'll ever convince him that I didn't now that we hid the body together. That's the fact of the matter. Even if I had childish hopes a few days ago, this relationship is now doomed.</p><p>        It already feels like I've been crying for hours. Forcing myself up, I wipe everything off of my face and make my way into my bathroom. The door creaks loudly as I push it back. Cool air flows from the room accompanied by a tinge of death. I could still smell him. It sends chills down my spine and waves of nausea churning in my stomach. I step in to see the bathroom window poorly boarded up, barely keeping me safe from cold. I glance down at the bathtub, expecting to see all of the blood we cleaned up last night. It looks good as new, without a hint of the red mess in was soaking up earlier.        </p><p>        I frown. I can smell the body so strongly in here, but walking in, you wouldn't be able to tell that this was ever home to a crime scene. I could be imagining it, still shaken by the trauma. The mess could also be worse than I thought. The mixture of blood and water could've soaked past the linoleum and into the baseboards. I would never be able to get that smell out on my own. My landlord would never let me pull up the boards, assuming I could even afford to replace all the damage.     </p><p>        A wet squelching sound comes from my throat as I start to gag. I can't handle being around the smell anymore and before sensory overload overcomes me, I turn off the light and return to my bedroom, slamming the door shut. I decide that I'm not going to do any of the work John gave to me. I'm just going to take a breather. Try and relax before I completely lose my mind. It only means I'll have to work harder tomorrow.         </p><p>        Throwing on some comfy clothes, I make my way into my small kitchen. I grab my kettle from my stovetop and fill it with water to boil. I'm looking forward to a nice cup of tea later or maybe even some cocoa now that it's acceptable for the winter season. While I wait, I sit down on my couch, flipping through YouTube. I practically watched every title on Netflix that wasn't mind-numbing over the summer during my free time and ever since some of my favorite shows ended, I just wasn't willing to pay for my Hulu-HBO subscription anymore. I settle for an hour-long compilation of a comedic duo. I realize that I'm not entirely interested in watching at all, rather I feel too lonely being alone in my completely quiet apartment. For the first time, I need a few background sounds to fill the room and make me feel slightly less out of place.       </p><p>        I let their banter and their jokes fall on deaf ears. When a do manage to hear what they're saying, an occasional smile creeps onto my chapped lips. For the most part, I'm stuck in a trance, unmoving as I see horrifying flashes of last night. The way his limp body slumped over in my bathtub, the way it thudded as Tim threw his corpse into the foliage. The way Tim didn't seem to care when he said that I had killed the man. I'm only taken back when I hear the high pitched whine of the kettle. Adrenaline immediately shakes through my body before I can realize what the sound is. For a split second, I am convinced that the sound could be someone screaming. </p><p>        I shake myself out of it as I prepare my drink. That's what a lot of today has been: getting lost in my thoughts and then trying to make myself forget. </p><p>        I make sure the drink is boiling hot and I sip it carefully. In the next few minutes, I absorb myself in the drink and use it to distract my thoughts the best I can. I try to focus on the froth collecting at the surface of the liquid, the way the drink stains the side of the porcelain mug, and the soft sound of sipping. It accompanies the silly impressions and childish giggling coming from the two on the tv. He sucks at video games. </p><p>        Unfortunately, I can't entirely stop my brain from working, but I'm not as upset about it when I decide I'm ready to come up with a plan. I'm still emotional, but that doesn't mean I can't draft some ways that I can get my way out of all of this. Obviously, the easiest would be to let things play out. Do nothing. However, my own pride and confidence refuse to let someone like Tim stay in my life. I don't think I can just ghost him and get away with it. He'd call the cops with the 'evidence'. He has too much leverage on me for me to just leave him be. </p><p>        I could also take a shot at talking to him about it. I have no idea how I'd approach any of it, though.</p><p>        The other option I can think of is completely throwing him under the bus. There's no way in hell I'd have any luck trying to only pin him. This option is possible if and only if I confess to my situation. I either tell the truth, <em>or</em> I can try and tweak some things here and there. There's no good ending for me in this choice. I would likely lose my job. That officer, Kent, at work would have his shitty proof that I killed Saul. It wouldn't be hard to connect it with me again. </p><p>        As awful as it sounds, it's the only way I could go about things without further incriminating myself. With every other possibility, I'm holding onto the information only Tim and I know: that there's a body in the woods and that someone was trying to get me in serious trouble. </p><p>        I think back to my second option. I don't want to talk to Tim. In fact, I'm starting to wish I didn't know him. We could go back. We could give him a proper burial. It might make me rest easier. Certainly better than a body out in the open. I could ask him if we could keep our distance. I'll probably move. Maybe I'll quit my job to. It might be time to move onto something else. Even now, I don't think I'll ever be able to do my job again if I ever want to forget this. </p><p>        I sigh as I finish my drink. While I don't want to go back, that doesn't sound like the worst idea. In the end, it comes down to what I value most: being falsely seen as a criminal or actually being a criminal, even if no one finds out.</p><p>        I muster up the courage to open up his contact in my phone. Our texts from the other night is still there. I bite my cheek as I type. </p><p><strong>Y/N: </strong>come over, I wanna talk about something       <em>sent 4:15 pm </em></p>
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